the wind's twelve quarters by Ursula K. Le Guin Read Free Book Online Page B

We’re all very tall, healthy, and beautiful. No fillings in our teeth. All skulls from Early America have fillings in the teeth.... Some of us are brown, some white, some gold-skinned. But all beautiful, and healthy, and well-adjusted, and aggressive, and successful. Our professions and degree of success are preplanned for us in the State Pre-School Homes. But there’s an occasional genetic flaw. Me, for instance. I was trained as an archaeologist because the Teachers saw that I really didn’t like people, live people. People bored me. All like me on the outside, all alien to me on the inside. When everything’s alike, which place is home?... But now I’ve seen an unhygienic room with insufficient heating. Now I’ve seen a cathedral not in ruins. Now I’ve met a living man who’s shorter than me, with bad teeth and a short temper. Now I’m home, I’m where I can be myself, I’m no longer alone!”  
    “Alone,” Lenoir said gently to Barry. “Loneliness, eh? Loneliness is the spell, loneliness is stronger.... Really it doesn’t seem unnatural.”  
    Bota was peering round the doorway, her face flushed between the black tangles of her hair. She smiled shyly and said a polite Latin good-morning to the newcomer.  
    “Kislk doesn’t know Latin,” Lenoir said with immense satisfaction. “We must teach Bota some French. French is the language of love, anyway, eh? Come along, let’s go out and buy some bread. I’m hungry.” Kislk hid her silver tunic under the useful and anonymous cloak, while Lenoir pulled on his moth-eaten black gown. Bota combed her hair, while Barry thoughtfully scratched a louse-bite on his neck. Then they set forth to get breakfast. The alchemist and the interstellar archaeologist went first, speaking French; the Gaulish slave and the professor from Indiana followed, speaking Latin, and holding hands. The narrow streets were crowded, bright with sunshine. Above them Notre Dame reared its two square towers against the sky. Beside them the Seine rippled softly. It was April in Paris, and on the banks of the river the chestnuts were in bloom.  

THE MASTERS

    "The Masters” was my first published genuine authentic real virgin-wool science fiction story, by which I mean a story in which or to which the existence and the accomplishments of science are, in some way, essential. At least that is what I mean by science fiction on Mondays. On Tuesdays sometimes I mean something else.  
    Some science-fiction writers detest science, its spirit, method, and works; others like it. Some are anti-technology, others are technology-worshippers. I seem to be rather bored by complex technology, but fascinated by biology, psychology, and the speculative ends of astronomy and physics, insofar as I can follow them. The figure of the scientist is a quite common one in my stories, and most often a rather lonely one, isolated, an adventurer, out on the edge of things.  
    The theme of this story is one I returned to later, with considerably better equipment. It has a good sentence in it, though: “He had been trying to measure the distance between the earth and God.”  
     
    In darkness a man stood alone, naked, holding a smoking torch. The reddish glow lit air and ground for only a few feet; beyond that was the darkness, the immeasurable. From moment to moment there was a rush of wind, a half-glimpsed glitter of eyes, a vast mutter  
    ing: “Hold it higher!” The man obeyed, though the torch shook in his shaking hands. He raised it clear above his head, while the darkness rushed and jabbered around him, closing in. The wind blew colder, the red flame guttered. His rigid arms began to quiver, then to jerk a little; his face was oily with sweat; he barely heard the soft, huge jabbering, “Hold it up, up, hold it up....” The current of time had stopped; only the whispering grew and grew till it was a howling, and still, horribly, nothing touched him, nothing came within the circle of light. “Now